do wrong by him
by sour gummies
Summary: Five years down the road, Billy Batson is completely fed up with waiting. And Wally's sorry, he really is, but he's just never had the world's strongest moral compass. —wally/billy, justice kink fill. Read at your own risk.


a/n: written for a fill on the 'justice kink' meme. trigger warnings for mutual dub-con, although in Billy's case it's only because he's under eighteen.

* * *

><p>This is wrong. This is the wrongest thing he's ever done.<p>

It's not the thrilling, _exhilarating_ kind of 'wrong;' kiddie 'wrong,' wannabe 'wrong.' It's not the kind of _wrongness _that comes pre-packaged with hidden laughter or careless infidelity or bad hangovers or petty disobedience or rules that were made to be broken, anyway.

This - emphatically - is _not that. _

This is something worse, far more terrible, a deeply disturbed sense of self-horror that seeps deep down beneath Wally's bare skin and into his bones, making his stomach do flips purely out of nausea even as he presses fifteen-year-old Billy Batson down into the mattress beneath him.

This is wrong. It's wrong, it's awful, it's so purely _bad_ that Wally feels like he's going to be sick - and yes, this absolute horror he's feeling must be completely justified, too, it MUST be, because despite the fact that he knows _exactly_ how wrong this is, Wally doesn't _stop_.

He wants this. That is how badly he wants this.

For his part, Billy has done just about everything to convince Wally that they can do this, can make this abomination happen, and furthermore that it_ won't _be the end of the world when they do. _Five years isn't so much time_, the teen whispers, grinning, dragging kisses along the edge of Wally's jaw. _Fifteen isn't so young, you know that.  
><em>

Wally melts despite himself, kissing back. There's truth in Billy's words, horribly soothing truth, and Wally hangs onto every grain of it like a lifeline. How much of Wally's life, of _Billy's_ life, has been spent living and fighting in an adult's world anyway? If they can wear the costumes like adults, put on the same masks, why not press the boundaries a little _further_, really play the part?

But then Wally grinds down again, harder, and beneath him Billy makes a high, tinny noise like a child and Wally feels sick again, feels like a monster. Feels like crying. He remembers Billy as he was when he was ten, back when Wally was only fifteen himself. He remembers the way Billy used to fetch him snacks and drinks like it was the highest honor in the world to save him a trip to the fridge; he remembers Billy's sloppy face paint on Halloween; he remembers Billy being just Captain Marvel to them because that was before any of them had even _known_, had _known_ he was a kid, and that was five whole years ago and - and Wally _knows_ now, he _knows_ and he's doing this _anyway _-

Billy suddenly says his name, impatiently, wanting to keep going. Wally breaks free of his stupor, knowing what comes next, what ought to come next at least, and - and he TRIES to say that he can't do this anymore, he really tries. But Billy's eyes are just so blue and adoring and perfect and what's five years anyway, five years won't make a lick of difference, three more and this will even be legal.

Billy pulls Wally down closer, breathing heavily into his ear, and Wally doesn't try to fight him.

_Please_, Billy pants, and how can a fifteen-year-old kid even be speaking like this, like he's actually an adult, actually supposed to have been fighting as a member of the Justice League of America since he was eight years old, it's insane. _Please, Wally. I'm so **tired** of waiting. It's been five whole years._

Wally freezes, on the brink; he thinks of earlier years, simpler years, back when he was obnoxious and oblivious and only liked curvy girls his own age and didn't know that the JLA's youngest member had a playground crush on him. Had they been happier then? Either of them? Does Wally even know?

Then Billy bucks his hips again, and Wally suddenly doesn't much care to think about any of that anymore. Resigned, he shuts off his shrieking brain, saving the guilt for later, and surrenders the evening to the whims of his hormones and his heartstrings.


End file.
